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1888 


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CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


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"THE.  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE" 

AND  'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS. 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE. 

This  series  of  Hoosier  dialect  poems,  by 
James  "W.  Riley,  originally  appeared  in 
The  Indianapolis  Journal,  over  the  pseu- 
donym of  Benj.  F.  Johnson,  of  Boone. 
They  commanded  such  general  attention 
and  praise,  as  to  lead  the  publishers  of  this 
volume  to  place  them  before  the  public  in 
their  present  complete  form. 


'The 


Oy  ^wimmin-bol®," 


AMD 


'If even  ^A\ope  J)oerT^, 


BY 


Bm  P.  JoHnsoN,  Of  Boom, 


[Jambs  Whitcomb  Rilky.] 


SIXTH   EDITION 


INDIANAPOLIS: 
The  Bowen-Merrill  Co.,  Pi'bllshers  and  Booksellers. 

1888. 


Copyrighted 
By  JAMES  W.  KlLEl. 


PREFACE, 


g,7jS   FAR   BACK  into  boyhood  as  the 

/        writer's  memory  may  intelligently 

go,  the  "country  poet"  is  most  pleasantly 

recalled.     He  was,  and  is,  as  common  as 

the  "country  fiddler,"  and  as  full  of  good 

old-fashioned    music.      Not    a    master    of 

melody,  indeed,  but  a  poet,  certainly — 

"Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies." 

And   it  is  simply  the  purpose   of  this 

series  of  dialectic  Studies    to  reflect  the 

real  worth  of  this  iiomely  child  of  Nature, 

and    to  echo    faithfully,   if   possible,   the 

faltering  music  of  his  song. 

Indianapolis,  Ind.,  J.  W.  R. 

July,  1883. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole 9 

Thoughts  Fer  The  Discdkaged  Fakmer      .  13 

A  Summer's  Day 17 

A  Hymb  of  Faith         .       .       .       .       .       .  20 

Worter-Melon-Time    ......  23 

My  Philosopy 28 

When  the  Frost  is  on  the  Punkin       .       .  31 

On  the  Death  of  Little  Mahala  Ashcrafx  34 

The  Mulberry  Tree 37 

To  My  Old  Neghbor,  William  Leachman    .  40 

My  Fiddle 46 

The  Clover 49 


THEOLDSWIMMIN'-HOLEAND 
'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS. 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE. 

Oh!     the  old   swimmin'-hole!     whare  the 

crick  so  still  and  deep 
Looked  like  a  baby-river  that  was  laying 

half  asleep, 
And  the  gurgle  of  the  worter  round  the 

drift  jest  below 
Sounded  like  the  laugh  of  something  we 

onc't  ust  to  know 
Before  we  could  remember  anything  but 

the  eyes 
Of  the  angels  lookin'  out  as  we  left  Para- 
dise; 
But  the  merry  days  of  youth  is  beyond  our 

control, 
And  it's  hard  to  part  ferever  with  the  old 

swimmin'-hole. 


10      THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE, 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!     In  the  hajopy 

days  of  yore, 
When  I  ust  to  lean  above  it  on  the  old 

sickamore, 
Oh!  it  showed  me  a  face  in  its  warm  sunny 

tide 
That  gazed  back  at  nie  so  gay  and  glorified, 
It  made  me  love  myself,  as  I  leaped  to  ca- 
ress 
My  shadder  smilin'  up  at  me  with  such 

tenderness. 
But  them  days  is  past  and  gone,  and  old 

Time's  tuck  his  toll 
From  the  old  man  come  back  to  the  old 

swimmin'-hole. 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!     In  the  loHg, 

lazy  days 
When  the  hum-drum  of  school  made  so 

many  run-a-ways, 
How  plesant  was  the  jurney  down  the  old 

dusty  lane, 
Whare  the  tracks  of  our  bare  feet  was  all 

printed  so  plain 
You  could  tell  by  the  dent  of  the  heel  and 

the  sole 
They  was  lots  o'  fun  on  hands  at  the  old 

swimmin'-hole. 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIir-HOLE.      11 

But  the  lost  joys  is  past!    Let  your  tears  in 

sorrow  roll 
Like  the  rain  that  ust  to  dapple  up  the  old 

swimmin'-hole. 

Thare  the  buUrushes  growed,  and  the  cat- 
tails so  tall, 
And  the  sunshine  and  shadder  fell  over  it 

r.U; 
And  it  mottled  the  worter  with  amber  and 

gold 
Till  the  glad  lilies  rocked  in  the  ripples 

that  rolled; 
And  the  snake-feeder's   four  gauzy  wings 

fluttered  by 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  daisy  dropped  out  of 

the  sky, 
Or  a  wownded  apple-blossom  in  tlie  breeze's 

control, 
As  it  cut  acrost  some  orchard  to'rds  the  old 

swimmin'-hole. 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!     When  I  last 

saw  the  place, 
The    scenes    was    all    changed,    like    the 

change  in  my  face; 
The  bridge  of  the  railroad  now  crosses  the 

spot 


12      THE  OLD  SWIMMIir-HOLE. 

Whare  the  old  divin'-log   lays    sunk   and 

fergot. 
And  I  stray  down  the  banks  whare   the 

trees  ust  to  be^ 

But  never  again   will  their  shade  shelter 
mel 

And  I  wish  in  my  sorrow  I  could  strip  to 

the  soul, 
And  dive  off  in   my  grave  like  the  eld 

Bwimmin'-hole. 


THOUGHTS    FEE   THE  DISCURAGED 
FARMER. 

The  summer  winds  is  cniflBn'  round  tL'; 

bloomin'  locus'  trees; 
And  the  dorer  in  the  pasttir'  is  a  big  day 

fer  the  bees. 
And    ther  been   a~-!«"iggiri'   Loney,   abov; 

board  and  on  the  sly, 
Till  they  stutter  in  their  hxirnn.  and  stagger 

as  they  fly. 
The  flicker  on  the  fenee-rail  'j>ear5  to  je-- 

ST'it  on  his  ■wings 
And  rcH  tro  his  feathers,  br  ti»e  eaerr  iraT 

he  STTigg; 
And  the  h:»=^-fy  ii  i-«r^^ 

le^fer  :ii 
And  the  <-  — -~  t.--  is  a-r«ri"-  _ 

iile  iLeT  is.. 


''—    '1-jT  IwaDd  to    ^  -dKTT  lodkiket 
and  tjjeTT  riu:  a  cazan'  iicw; 


14         DISCURAGED  FARMER. 

So  they  quarrel   in  the  furries,  and  they 

quarrel  on  the  wing — 
But  theyr  peaceabler  in  pot-pies  than  any 

other  thing : 
And  its  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  up 

in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as   a  yaller- 

jacket's  nest; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the 

sun's  a-shinin'  right. 
Seems  to  kindo-sorto  sharpen  up  a  feller's 

appetite! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'   rain,  but  the  sun's 

out  to-day, 
And  the  clouds   of  the  wet   spell    is   all 

cleared  away, 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the 

grass  is  greener  still; 
It  may  rain  again   to-morry,  but   I  don't 

think  it  will. 
Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn's 

drownded  out, 
And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure, 

without  doubt; 
But  the  kind   Providence  that  has  never 

failed  us  yet, 


DISCUBAGED  FARMER.  15 

"Will  be  on  hands  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh 
hour,  I  bet! 

Does  the  medder-lark  complain,  as  he  swims 

high  and  dry 
Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the 

blue  of  the  sky  ? 
Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whistle  in  a  dis- 

appinted  way, 
Er  hang  his  head  in  silence,  and  sorrow  all 

the  day? 
Is  the  chipmuck's  health   a-failin'?     Does 

he  walk,  er  does  he  run  ? 
Don't  the  buzzards  ooze  around  up  thare 

jest  like  they've  alius  done? 
Is    they   anything    the    matter  with    the 

rooster's  lungs  er  voice? 
Ort  a  mortal  be  complainin'  when  dumb 

animals  rejoice? 

Then  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented  with 

our  lot; 
The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun 

is  shining  hot. 
Oh !  let  us  fill  our  harts  up  with  the  glory 

of  the  day, 


16         DISCURAGED  FARMER. 

And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sor- 
row far  away  I 

Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence 
fer  guide, 

Such  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us 
satisfied; 

Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses 
full  of  dew, 

And  the  dew  is  full  of  heavenly  love  that 
di'ips  fer  me  and  you. 


A  SU]\rMER'S  DAY. 

The  Summer's  put  the  idy  in 
My  head  that  I'm  a  boy  again; 

And  all  around's  so  bright  and  gay 

I  want  to  put  my  team  away. 

And  jest  git  out  whare  I  can  lay 

And  soak  my  hide  full  of  the  day! 
But  work  is  work,  and  must  be  done — 
Yet,  as  I  work,  I  have  my  fun, 
Jest  fancyin'  these  furries  here 
Is  childhood's  paths  onc't  more  so  dear : — 
And  so  I  walk  through  medder-lands, 

And  country  lanes,  and  swampy  trails 
Whare  long  bullrushes  bresh  my  hands; 

And,  tilted  on  the  ridered  rails 

Of  deadnin'  fences,  "Old  Bob  White" 
Whistles  his  name  in  high  delight, 
And  whirrs  away.     I  wunder  still, 
Whichever  way  a  boy's  feet  will — 
Whare  trees  has  fell,  with  tangled  tops 

Whare  dead  leaves  shakes,  I  stop  fer 
Heerin'  the  acorn  as  it  drops —  Q)reth, 

H'istin'  my  chin  up  still  as  deth, 


18  A  SUMMER'S  DA  Y. 

And  watchin'  clos't,  with  upturned  eyes, 
The  tree  whare  Mr.  Squirrel  tries 
To  hide  hisse'f  above  the  limb, 
But  lets  his  ov/n  tale  tell  on  him. 

I  wunder  on  in  deeper  glooms — 
Git  hungry,  hearin'  female  cries 

From  old  farm-houses,  whare  perfumes 
Of  harvest  dinners  seem  to  rise 

And  ta'nt  a  feller,  hart  and  brane, 

With  memories  he  can't  explain. 

I  wunder  through  the  underbresh, 

Whare  pig-tracks,  pintin'  to'rds  the  crick 

Is  picked  and  printed  in  the  fresh 

Black-bottom  lands,  like  wimmern  pick 

Their  pie-crusts  with  a  fork,  some  way, 

When  bakin'  fer  camp-meetin'  day. 

I  wunder  on  and  on  and  on. 

Till  my  gray  hair  and  beard  is  gone, 

And  every  wrinkle  on  my  brow 

Is  rubbed  clean  out,  and  shaddered  now 

With  curls  as  brown  and  fair  and  fine 

As  tenderls  of  the  wild  grape-vine 

That  ust  to  climb  the  highest  tree 

To  keep  the  ripest  ones  fer  me. 

I  wunder  still,  and  here  I  am 

Wadin'  the  ford  below  the  dam — 


A  SUMMERS  DA  Y.  19 

The  worter  chucklin'  round  my  knee 

At  hornet-welt  and  bramble  scratch, 
And  me  a-slippin'  'crost  to  see 

Ef  Tyner's  plums  is  rij^e,  and  size 
The  old  man's  wortermelon-patch, 

With  juicy  mouth  and  drouthy  eyes. 
Then,  after  sich  a  day  of  mirth 
And  happiness  as  worlds  is  worth — 

So  tired  that  heaven  seems  nigh  about,— 
The  sweetest  tiredness  on  earth 

Is  to  git  home  and  flatten  out — • 
So  tired  you  can't  lay  flat  enough, 
And  sort  o'  wish  that  you  could  spred 
Out  like  molasses  on  the  bed, 
And  jest  drip  oflfthe  aidges  in 
The  dreams  that  never  comes  again. 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH. 

O,  THOU  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashion  fer  the  best, 
Help  us  who  sees  with  mortal  eyes 

To  overlook  the  rest. 

They's  times,  of  course,  we  grope  in  doubt, 

And  in  affliction  sore; 
So  knock  the  louder,  Lord,  without. 

And  we'll  unlock  the  door. 

Make  us  to  feel,  when  times  looks  bad 

And  tears  in  pitty  melts, 
Thou  wast  the  only  help  we  had 

When  they  was  nothin'  else. 

Death  comes  alike  to  ev'ry  man 
That  ever  was  borned  on  earth; 

Then  let  us  do  the  best  we  can 
To  live  for  all  life 's  worth. 

Ef  storms  and  tempests  dread  to  see 
Makes  black  the  heavens  o'er, 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH.  21 

They  done  the  same  in  Galillee, 
Two  thousand  years  before. 

But,  after  all,  the  golden  sun 

Poured  out  its  floods  on  them 
That  watched  and  waited  fer  the  One 

Then  horned  in  Bethlyham. 

Also,  the  star  of  holy  writ 

Made  noonday  of  the  night, 
While  other  stars  that  looked  at  it 

Was  envious  with  delight. 


'C- 


The  sages  then  in  worship  bowed. 

From  every  clime  so  fare; 
O,  sinner,  think  of  that  glad  crowd 

That  congregated  thare ! 

They  was  content  to  fall  in  ranks 
With  One  that  knowed  the  way 

From  good  old  Jurden's  stormy  banks 
Clean  up  to  Judgment  Day. 

No  matter,  then,  how  all  is  mixed 

In  our  near-sighted  eyes, 
All  things  is  fer  the  best,  and  fixed 

Out  straight  in  Paradise. 


22  A  HYMB  OF  FAITH. 

Then  take  things  as  God  sends  'em  here, 

And,  ef  we  live  or  die, 
Be  more  and  more  contenteder, 

Without  a-asking  why. 

0,  thou  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashion  fer  the  best, 
Help  us  who  sees  with  mortal  eyes 

To  overlook  the  rest. 


WORTER-MELON  TIME. 

Old  worter-melon  time  is  a-comin'    round 
again. 
And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tick- 
leder'n  me, 
Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  worter-melons 
is  a  sin — 
Which  is  the  why  and  wharefore,  as  you 
can  plainly  see. 

Oh,   it's  in  the   sandy  soil  worter-melons 
does  the  best. 
And  its  thare  they'll  lay  and  waller  in 
the  sunshine  and  the  dew 
Till  they  wear  all  the  green  streaks  clean 
off  of  theyr  breast. 
And  you  bet  I  ain't  a-findin'  any  fault 
with  them;  air  you? 

They  ain't  no  better  thing  in  the  vegetable 
line; 
And  they  don't  need  much  'tendin',  as 
ev'ry  farmer  knows ; 


24  WORTER-MELON  TIME. 

And  when  theyr    ripe    and  ready    far  to 
pluck  from  the  vine, 
I  want  to  say  to  you  theyr  the  best  fruit 
that  grows. 

It's  some  likes  the  yaller-core,  and  some 
likes  the  red, 
And  it's  some  says  "The  little  Californy" 
is  the  best; 
But  the  sweetest  slice  of  all  I  ever  wedged 
in  my  head. 
Is  the  old  "Edingburg  Mounting-sprout," 
of  the  west. 

You  don't  want  no  punkins  nigh  your  wor- 
ter-melon  vines — 
'Cause,   some-way-another,    they'll    spile 
your  melons,  shore; — 
I've  seed  'em  taste  like  punkins,  from  the 
core  to  the  rines, 
Which  may  be  a  fact  you  have  heerd  of 
before. 

But  your  melons  that's  raised  right,  and 

'tended  to  with  care, 
You  can  walk  around  amongst  'em  with 

a  parent's  pride  and  joy. 
And  thump  'em    on   the    heads   with   as 

fatherly  a  air 


WORTER-MELON  TIME.         25 

As  ef  each  one  of  them  was  your  little 
girl  er  boy. 

I  joy  in  my  hart  jest  to  hear  that  rippin' 
sound 
When  you  split  one  down  the  back  and 
jolt  the  halves  in  two, 
And  the  friends  you  love  the  best  is  geth- 
ered  all  around — ■ 
And  you  says  unto  your  sweetheart,  "Oh 
here's  the  core  fer  you!" 

And  I  like  to  slice  'em  up  in  big  pieces  fer 
'em  all, 
Espeshally  the  children,  and  watch  theyr 
high  delight 
As  one  by  one  the  rines  with  theyr  pink 
notches  falls. 
And  they  holler  fer  some  more,  with  un- 
quenched  appetite. 

Boys  take  to  it  natchural,  and  I  like  to  see 
'em  eat — 
A  slice  of  worter-melon's  like  a  french- 
harp  in  theyr  hands. 
And  when  they  "saw"  it  through  theyr 
mouth  sich  music  can't  be  beat — 
'Cause  it's  music  both  the  sperit  and  the 
stummick  understands. 


26  WORTER-MELON  TIME. 

Oh,  they's  more  in  worter-melons  than  the 
purty-coloi'ed  meat, 
And    the    overflowin'  sweetness   of  the 
worter  squashed  betwixt 
The  up'ard  and  the  down'ard  motions  of 
a  feller's  teeth. 
And  it's   the  taste  of  ripe  old  age  and 
juicy  childhood  mixed. 

Fer  I  never  taste  a  melon  but  my  thoughts 
flies  away 
To  the  summertime  of  youth,  and  again 
I  see  the  dawn, 
And  the  fadin'  afternoon  of  the  long  sum- 
mer day, 
And  the  dusk  and  dew  a-fallin',  and  the 
night  a-comin'  on. 

And  thare's  the  corn  around  us,  and  the 
lispin'  leaves  and  trees. 
And  the  stars  a-peekin'  down  on   us  as 
still  as  silver  mice, 
And  us  boys  in  the  worter-melons  on  our 
hands  and  knees, 
And  the  new  moon  hangin'  o'er  us  like  a 
yaller-cored  slice. 

0,  it's  worter-melon  time  is  a-comin'  round 
again, 


WORTER-MELON  TIME.         27 

And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tick- 

leder'n  me, 
Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  worter-melons 

is  a  sin — 
Which  is  the  why  and  wharefore,  as  you 

can  plainly  see. 


MY  PHILOSOFY. 

I  AiNT,  ner  don't  p'tend  to  be. 
Much  posted  on  philosofy; 
But  thare  is  times,  when  all  alone, 
I  work  out  idees  of  my  own. 
And  of  these  same  thare  is  a  few 
I'd  like  to  jest  refer  to  you — 
Pervidin'  that  you  don't  object 
To  listen  clos't  and  rickoUect. 

I  alius  argy  that  a  man 
Who  does  about  the  best  he  can 
Is  plenty  good  enough  to  suit 
This  lower  mundane  institute — 
No  matter  ef  his  daily  walk 
Is  subject  fer  his  neghbor's  talk, 
And  critic-minds  of  ev'ry  whim 
Jest  all  git  up  and  go  fer  him ! 

I  knowed  a  feller  onc't  that  had 
The  yaller-janders  mighty  bad, 
And  each  and  ev'ry  friend  he'd  meet 
Would  stop  and  give  him  a  receet 


MY  PHILOSOFY.  29 

Fer  curin'  of  em.     But  he'd  say- 
He  kind  o'  thought  they'd  go  away 
Without  no  medicin',  and  boast 
That  he'd  git  well  without  one  doste. 

He  kep'  a  yallerin'  on — and  they 
Perdictin'  that  he'd  die  some  day 
Before  he  knowed  it!     Tuck  his  bed, 
The  feller  did,  and  lost  his  head, 
And  wandered  in  his  mind  a  spell- — 
Then  rallied,  and,  at  last,  got  well; 
But  ev'ry  friend  that  said  he'd  die 
Went  back  on  him  eternaly  I 

Its  natchural  enough,  I  guess, 

When  some  gits  more  and  some  gits  less, 

Fer  them-uns  on  the  slimmest  side 

To  claim  it  aint  a  fair  divide; 

And  I've  knowed  some  to  lay  and  wait, 

And  git  up  soon,  and  set  up  late. 

To  ketch  some  feller  they  could  hate 

Fer  goin'  at  a  faster  gait. 

The  signs  is  bad  when  folks  commence 
A  findin'  fault  with  Providence, 
And  balkin'  'cause  the  earth  don't  shake 
At  ev'ry  prancin'  step  they  take. 


30  MY  PHILOSOFY. 

No  man  is  great  till  he  can  see 
How  less  than  little  he  would  be 
Ef  stripped  to  self,  and  stark  and  bare 
He  hung  his  sign  out  anywhare. 

My  doctern  is  to  lay  aside 

Contensions,  and  be  satisfied: 

Jest  do  your  best,  and  praise  er  blame 

That  follers  that,  counts  jest  the  same. 

I've  alius  noticed  grate  success 

Is  mixed  with  troubles,  more  or  less 

And  its  the  man  who  does  the  best 

That  gits  more  kicks  than  all  the  rest 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE 
PUNKIN. 

When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the 

fodder's  in  the  shock, 
And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of 

the  struttin'  turkey-cock, 
And  the  clackin'  of  the  guineys,  and  the 

cluckin'  of  the  hens. 
And  the  rooster's  hallylooyer  as  he  tiptoes 

on  the  fence ; 
0  its  then's  the  times  a  feller  is  a-feelin'  at 

his  best, 
With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a 

night  of  peaceful  rest, 
As  he  leaves  the  house,  bare-headed,  and 

goes  out  to  feed  the  stock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the 

fodder's  in  the  shock. 

They's  something  kindo'  harty-like  about 
the  atmosphere 


32        FROST  ON  THE  PUNKIN. 

When  the  heat  of  summer's  over  and  the 

coolin'  fall  is  here — 
Of  course   we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the 

blossoms  on  the  trees, 
And  the  mumble  of   the  hummin' -birds 

and  buzzin'  of  the  bees; 
But  the  air's  so  appetizin';  and  the  land- 
scape through  the  haze 
Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  airly 

autumn  days 
Is  a  pictur'  that  no  painter  has  the_colorin' 

to  mock — 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the 

fodder's  in  the  shock. 

The  husky,  rusty  rustle  of  the  tossels  of  the 
corn, 

And  the  raspin'  of  the  tangled  leaves,  as 
golden  as  the  morn; 

The  stubble  in  the  furries — kindo'  lone- 
some-like, but  still 

A-preachin'  sermons  to  us  of  the  barns  they 
growed  to  fill; 

The  strawstack  in  the  medder,  and  the 
reaper  in  the  shed; 

The  bosses  in  theyr  stalls  below — the  clover 
overhead  I — 


FROST  ON  THE  PUNKIN. 


33 


0,  it  sets  my  heart  a-clickin'  like  the  tickin' 

of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the 

fodder's  in  the  shock] 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA 
ASHCRAFT. 

"Little  Halt!  Little  Haly!"  cheeps  the 
robin  in  the  tree; 

"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,  "Little 
Haly!"  moans  the  bee; 

"Little  Haly!  Little  Haly!"  calls  the  kill- 
deer  at  twilight; 

And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers 
"Haly"  all  the  night. 

The  sunflowers  and  the  hollyhawks  droops 

over  the  garden  fence; 
The  old  path  down  the  gardenwalks  still 

holds  her  footprints'  dents; 
And  the  well-sweep's  swingin'  bucket  seems 

to  wait  fer  her  to  come 
And  start  it  on  its  wortery  errant  down  the 

old  bee-gum. 

The  bee-hives  all  is  quiet,  and  the  little 
Jersey  steer, 


LITTLE  MAHAL  A  ASHCRAFT.  35 

When  any  one  comes  nigh  it,  acts  so  lone- 
some like  and  queer; 

And  the  little  Banty  chickens  kind  o'  cut- 
ters faint  and  low, 

Like  the  hand  that  now  was  feedin'  'em 
was  one  they  didn't  know. 

They's  sorrow  in  the  wavin'  leaves  of  all 
the  apple-trees; 

And  sorrow  in  the  harvest-sheaves,  and 
sorrow  in  the  breeze; 

And  sorrow  in  the  twitter  of  the  swallers 
'round  the  shed; 

And  all  the  song  her  red-bird  sings  is  "  Lit- 
tle Haly's  dead!" 

The  medder  'pears   to  miss   her,  and   the 

pathway  through  the  grass, 
Whare  the  dewdrops  ust  to  kiss  her  little 

bare  feet  as  she  passed; 
And  the  old  pin  in  the  gate-post  seems  to 

kindo-sorto'  doubt 
That  Haly's  little  sunburnt  hands'll  ever 

pull  it  out. 

Did  her  father  er  her  mother  ever  love  her 

more'n  me, 
Er  her  sisters  er  her  brother  prize  her  love 

more  tenderly  ? 


36  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT. 

I  question — and  what  answer? — only  tears, 

and  tears  alone, 
And   ev'ry   neghbor's  eyes  is  full   o'  tear 

drops  as  my  own. 

"Little  Haly!  Little  Haly!"  cheeps  the 
robin  in  the  tree; 

"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,  "Little 
Haly!"  moans  the  bee; 

"Little  Haly!  Little  Haly!"  calls  the  kill- 
deer  at  twilight. 

And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers 
"Haly"  all  the  night. 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE. 

O,  ITS  many's  the  scenes  which  is  dear  to 

my  mind 
As  I  think  of  my  childhood  so  long  left 

behind ; 
The  home  of  my  birth,  with  its  old  pun- 
cheon floor, 
And  the  bright  mornin'-glories  that  growed 

round  the  door; 
The  warped  clab-board  roof  whare  the  rain 

it  run  oflT 
Into  streams  of  sweet  dreams  as  I  laid  in 

the  loft, 
Countin'  all  of  the  joys  that  was  dearest 

to  me. 
And  a-thinkin'  the  most  of  the  mulberry 

tree. 

And  to-day  as   I   dream,    with  both   eyes 

wide-awake, 
I  can  see  the  old  tree,  and  its  limbs  as  they 

shake, 


38         THE  MULBERRY  TREE. 

And  the  long  purple  berries  that  rained 

on  the  ground 
Whare    the    pastur'  was    bald    whare   we 

trommped  it  around. 
And  again,  peekin'  up  through  the  thick 

leafy  shade, 
I   can  see  the  glad  smiles  of  the  friends 

when  I  strayed 
With  my  little  bare  feet  from   my   own 

mother's  knee 
To  foller  them  off  to  the  mulberry  tree. 

Leanin'  up  in  the  forks,  I  can  see  the  old 

rail, 
And  the  boy  climbin'   up  it,  claw,  tooth, 

and  toe-nail, 
And  in  fancy  can  hear,  as  he  spits  on  his 

hands, 
The  ring  of  his  laugh  and  the  rip  of  his 

pants. 
But  that  rail  led   to  glory,  as  certain  and 

shore 
As  I'll  never  climb  thare  by  that  rout'  any 

more — 
What  was  all  the  green   laurels  of  Fame 

unto  me. 
With  my  brows  in  the  boughs  of  the  mul- 
berry tree? 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE.         39 

Then  its  who  can  fergit  the  old  mulberry 

tree 
That  he  knowed   in   the   days   when  his 

thoughts  was  as  free 
As  the  flutterin'  wings  of  the  birds  that 

flew  out 
Of  the  tall  wavin'   tops  as  the  boys  come 

about? 
0,  a  crowd  of  my  memories,  laughin'  and 

gay. 

Is  a-clunbin'  the  fence  of  that  pastur'  to- 
day, 
And  a  pantin'  with  joy,  as  us  boys  ust  to  be, 
They  go  racin'  acrost  fer  the  mulberry  tree. 


TO    MY    OLD    NEGHBOR,    WILLIAM 
LEACHMAN. 

Feb  forty  year  and  better  you  have  been  a 

friend  to  me, 
Through  days  of  sore  afflictions  and  dire 

adversity, 
You  alius  had  a  kind  word  of  counsel  to 

impart. 
Which  was  like  a  healin'  'intment  to  the 

sorrow  of  my  hart. 

When  I  hurried  my  first  womern,  William 
Leachman,  it  was  you 

Had  the  only  consolation  that  I  could  lis- 
ten to — 

Fer  I  knowed  you  had  gone  through  it  and 
had  rallied  from  the  blow, 

And  when  you  said  I'd  do  the  same,  I 
knowed  you'd  ort  to  know. 

But  that  time  I'll  long  remember;  how  I 
wundered  here  and  thare — 


WILLIAM  LEACHMAN.  41 

Through  the  settin'-room  and  kitchen,  and 

out  in  the  open  air — 
And  the  snowflakes  whirlin',  whirlin',  and 

the  fieldsa  frozen  glare, 
And  the  neghbors'  sleds  and  wagons  con- 

gregatin  ev'rywhare. 

I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  heaven,  but  the 

sun  was  hid  away ; 
I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  earth  again,  but 

all  was  cold  and  gray; 
And  the  clock,  like  ice  a-crackin',  clickt 

the  icy  hours  in  two — 
And  my  eyes'd  never  thawed  out  ef  it 

hadn't  been  fer  you  I 

We  set  thare  by  the  smoke-house — me  and 
you  out  thare  alone — • 

Me  a-thinkin' — you  a-talkin'  in  a  soothin' 
undertone — 

You  a-talkin' — me  a-thinkin'  of  the  sum- 
mers long  ago, 

And  a-writin'  "Marthy — Marthy"  with  my 
finger  in  the  snow ! 

William  Leachman,  I  can  see  you  jest  as 
plain  as  I  could  then; 


42  WILLI  A  M  LEA  CHMAN. 

And  your  hand  is  on  my  shoulder,  and  you 

rouse  me  up  again; 
And  I  see  the  tears  a-drippin'  from  your 

own  eyes,  as  you  say: 
"Be  reconciled  and  bear  it — we  but  linger 

fer  a  day!" 

At  the  last  Old  Settlers'  Meetin',  we  went 
j'intly,  you  and  me — 

Your  bosses  and  my  wagon,  as  you  wanted 
it  to  be; 

And  sence  I  can  remember,  from  the  time 
we've  neghbored  here. 

In  all  sich  friendly  actions  you  have  double- 
done  your  sheer. 

It  was  better  than   the  meetin',  too,  that 

9-mile  talk  we  had 
Of  the  times  when  we  first  settled  here  and 

travel  was  so  bad; 
When  w-e  had  to  go   on   hoss-back,    and 

sometimes  on  "Shanks's  mare," 

And  "blaze"  a  road  fer  them  behind  that 
had  to  travel  thare. 

And  now  we  was  a-trottin'  'long  a  leve' 
gravel  pike. 


WILLIAM  LEACH  MAN.  43 

In  a  big  two-boss  road-wagon,  jest  as  easy 

as  you  like — 
Two  of  us  on  tbe  front  seat,  and  our  wim- 

ern-folks  bebind. 
A-settin'  in  tbeir  Winsor  cbeers  in  perfect 

peace  of  mind! 

And  we  pinted  out  old  landmarks,  nearly 

faded  out  of  sight : — 
Tbare  they  ust  to  rob  tbe  stage-coach;  thare 

Gash  Morgan  bad  the  fight 
With  tbe  old  stag-deer  that  pronged  him — 

bow  he  battled  fer  his  life, 
And  lived  to  prove  tbe  story  by  tbe  handle 

of  bis  knife. 

Thare  the  first  griss-mill  was  put  up  in  the 

settlement,  and  we 
Had  tuck  our  grindin'  to  it  in  the  fall  of 

Forty-three — 
When  we  tuck  our  rifles  with  us,  techin' 

elbows  all  tbe  way, 
And  a-stickin'  right  together  ev'ry  minute, 

night  and  day. 

Tbare  ust  to  stand  tbe  tavern  that  they 
called  tbe  "Travelers'  Eest," 


44  WiJbZ^IAM  LEACHMAN. 

And  thare,   beyent    the    covered    bridge, 

"  The  Counterfitters'  Nest"— 
Whare  they  claimed  the  house  was  ha'nted 

— that  a  man  was  murdered  thare, 
And  hurried  underneath  the  floor,  er  round 

the  place  somewhare. 

And  the  old  Plank  Eoad  they  laid  along  in 

Fifty-one  er  two — 
You  know  we  talked  about  the  times  when 

that  old  road  was  new: 
How  "Uncle  Sam"  put  down  that  road  and 

never  taxed  the  State 
Was  a  problem,  don't  you   rickollect,  we 

couldn't  dimonstrate? 

Ways  was  devious,  William  Leachman,  that 

me  and  you  has  past; 
But  as  I  found  you  true  at  first,  I  find  you 

true  at  last, 
And,  now  the  time's  a-comin'"  mighty  nigh 

our  jurney's  end, 
I  want  to  throw  wide  open  all  my  soul  to 

you,  my  friend. 

With  the  stren'th  of  all  my  bein',  and  the 
heat  of  hart  and  brane. 


WILLIA  M  LEA  CHMAN.  45 

And  ev'ry  livn'  drop  of  blood   in   artery 

and  vane, 
I  love  you  and  respect  you,  and  I  venerate 

your  name, 
Fer  the  name  of  William  Leachman  and 

True  Manhood's  jest  the  samel 


MY  FIDDLE. 

My  fiddle? — Well,  I  kindo'  keep  her  handy, 

don't  you  know! 
Though  I  aint  so  much  inclined  to  tromp 

the  strings  and  switch  the  bow 
As  I  was  before  the  timber  of  my  elbows 

got  so  dry, 
And  my  fingers  was  more  limber-like  and 

caperish  and  spry ; 
Yet  I  can  plonk  and  plunk  and  plink, 

And  tune  her  up  and  play, 
And  jest  lean  back  and  laugh  and  wink 

At  ev'ry  rainy  day! 

My  playin's  only  middlin' — tunes  I  picked 

up  when  a  boy — 
The   kindo'-sorto'    fiddlin,  that    the   folks 

calls  "cordaroy;" 
"The  Old  Fat  Gal,"  and  "Eye-straw,"  and 

"My  Sailyor's  on  the  Sea," 
Is  the  old  cowtillions   I  "saw"  when  the 

eh' ice  is  left  to  me; 


3IY  FIDDLE.  47 

And  so  I  plunk  and  plonk  and  plink. 

And  rosum-up  my  bow, 
And  play  the  tunes  that  makes  you  think 

The  devil's  in  your  toe! 

I  was  alius  a  romancin',  do-less  boy,  to  tell 

the  truth, 
A-fiddlin'  and   a-dancin',  and  a  wastin    of 

my  youth, 
And  a  actin'  and  a  cuttin'-up  all  sorts  o' 

silly  pranks 
That  wasn't  worth  a  button  of  anybody's 

thanks! 
But  they  tell  me,  when  I  ust  to  plink 

And  plonk  and  plunk  and  play, 
My  music  seemed  to  have  the  kmk 

0'  drivin'  cares  away ! 

That's  how  this  here  old  fiddle's  won  my 

hart's  indurin'  love! 
From  the  strings  acrost  her  middle  to  the 

schreechin'  keys  above — 
From  her  "apern,"  over  bridge,  and  to  the 

ribbon  round  her  throat, 
She's  a  wooin',  cooin'  pigeon,  singin'  "Love 

me"  ev'ry  note! 


is  MY  FIDDLE. 

And  so  I  pat  her  neck,  and  plink 
Her  strings  with  lovin'  hands, 

And,  list'nin'  clos't,  I  sometimes  think 
She  kindo'  understands! 


THE  CLOVER. 

Some  sings  of  the  lily,  and  daisy,  and  rose, 

And  the  pansies  and  pinks  that  the  sum- 
mertime tnrows 

In  the  green  grassy  lap  of  the  medder  that 
lays 

Blinkin'  up  at  the  skyes  through  the  sun- 
shiny days; 

But  what  is  the  lily,  and  all  of  the  rest 

Of  the  flowers,  to  a  man  with  a  hart  in  his 
breast 

That  was  dipped  brimmin'  full  of  the  honey 
and  dew 

Of  the  sweet  clover-blossoms  his  babyhood 
knew  ? 

I  never  set  eyes  on  a  clover-field  now, 

Er  fool  round  a  stable,  er  climb  in  the  mow, 

But  my  childhood  comes  back  jest  as  clear 

and  as  plain 
As  the  smell  of    the   clover   I'm   sniffin' 

again; 
And  1  wunder  away  in  a  bare-footed  dream, 


60  THE  CLOVER. 

Wliaro  I  tangle  my  iocs   in  tlio  lUObSO/ns 

that  gleam 
"With  the  dew  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning 

of  love 
Ere  it  ^vept  o'er  the  graves  that  I'm  weepin' 

above. 

Aud  so  I  love  clover — it  seems  like  a  part 
Of  the  sacredest  sorrows  and  joys  of  my 

hart; 
Anil  wharever  it  blossoms,  oh,  thare  let  mo 

bow 
And  thank  tlie  good   Clod  as   I'm  thankin' 

ITim  now; 
And   I  pray  to  llini  still  fer  the  stren'tli, 

when  I  die. 
To  go  out  in  the  clover  and  tell  it  good-b>  •<?, 
And  lovin'ly  nestle  my  face  in  its  blocm 
While  my  soul  slips  away  on  a  breth  of 

perfume. 


•UK  END.®- 


>^ 


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